That Night at the Gravestone
by BluSkyRose
Summary: Nightwing just found out about Jason's death. Still reeling from the news, he makes his way to his brother's grave. Hoping for-what? Forgiveness? Closure? He doesn't know, and neither does the one watching him.


**A.N. I own nothing…Quick note: to anyone who has read my Danny Phantom story, I'm sorry I haven't updated it in so long; I lost my files, and then got busy, and haven't been able to find the episodes…long story short, my inspiration has run dry. :/ If I can, I'll continue it…eventually. . But I am truly sorry.**

**Any fans of the Bat family will figure this one out almost instantly. Interpret it how you will. But if, for some reason, you're dying to know what I was thinking when I wrote it, send me a message and I'll respond as soon as I can. I hope you like this, if only just a little. Feel free to leave feedback, good or bad…if you can't take the time, that's fine. I understand. Thank you for reading my story, and have a great day. :)**

**That Night at the Gravestone**

It was dark. Rain lashed the cold ground, periodically growing dark and then flashing white with lightning. Wind screamed through the cemetery, ripping at the trees and howling at the tombstones. A single figure climbed the hill, a thin black jacket pulled close around him, steadily ignoring the storm as it raged around him.

In a tree near the back of the cemetery, something stirred.

The figure—a man—struggled with the gate for a moment, the rusted latch stubbornly refusing to open, until, with a great wrench and a protesting screech that was lost in a clap of thunder, it gave way and the gate was pulled open. The man tried to close it behind him, but the wind all but tore it away, and he gave up quickly. Shuddering slightly in the cold, he wrapped his arms tightly around himself, and climbed steadily to a grave separated from the others. It bordered the edge of a small copse of oaks.

Silently, in the tree directly behind the grave marker, something pulled its limbs closer together and moved a little downwards to better see the visitor. Green eyes widened, first in astonishment, then wonder, and finally in a sort of cautious delight.

The man in the dark jacket stood underneath the furthest reaching branches of the tree, staring at the tombstone and the words inscribed there. Water collected on the leaves above and spilled over, drenching him, but if he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. The wind slowed and quieted, just for a moment, and in that moment, he spoke.

"Jason."

The word—the name—was spoken without immediately obvious inflection, so soft as if to be almost inaudible. The voice was choked with suppressed tears. In the tree, there was a quick intake of breath. Something shifted, moving closer.

"Jason," the man approached, then, and knelt in front of the grave. "Jason," he murmured, and traced the dates carved into the stone with a hand that shook, just once, before he drew it back. "Jason," he breathed, and with surprising grace, collapsed slowly against the hard, unfeeling tombstone. He shivered, then, as if just noticing the cold; his sobs mingled with the rain.

In the tree, a slow, shaky sigh was snatched away by the wind. There was a quick, sharp movement, a shaking of a head, invisible behind concealing leaves and branches.

The man, unaware of a second presence, raising his head slowly to look at the gravestone. He might have whispered something then, but it went unheard in the next roll of thunder.

The one in the oak tree frowned.

But the next words were louder and clear, even with the noise conflicted around them.

"I'm sorry!"

It was a scream, a plea, a cry. It was a desperate appeal for understanding, an injured animal's dying sound, an anguished shout for mercy.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. I swear, I swear I didn't know. Jason, I'm sorry—this should never have happened, I'm—I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you."

The last was a choking whisper, as the speaker once again lowered his head. In the tree, sharp ears just barely caught it. Shocked and pleased by this unexpected development, thin lips curved upwards.

"It should never have happened like this," the voice continued. "I—I was in space…a mission. But you know that." Self-mocking laughter combined with the thunder and twisted into something dark. Still kneeling on the freezing dirt, the man let it fade away before continuing. "I only just found out. Well—no. What time is it? I think I found out yesterday. But I came back…I came back on…we came back pretty far away from here. I've been riding for hours to get here."

A silence. In the tree, the foliage danced frantically in the wind, while a dark shape, clinging to a branch, held perfectly still.

"I…oh, Jason." More sobbing. The man leaned backwards to tuck his legs into his body. He wrapped his arms around them and lowered his head. His breathing, erratic as he fought to regain control of his emotions, could be heard even over the wind and the rain. "It's even your birthday today." His voice was muffled, now. His eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing, clouded as they were by grief. "I…I made you something. I don't know…what to do with it…now…."

Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled heavily over them.

"Storm's getting pretty close," the man muttered, half-heartedly. He didn't move. It was obvious he didn't care. "Hey Jason…you know the—" he tensed, then, and his hands jerked once or twice, as if longing to hit something, or someone. "The…the one…the _freak_—" the word was spat with a vehemence that pleased the one in the tree. "—who did this to you—he was already—he's gone. When I got here. I asked Babs. He's back—back through the revolving door." The man let loose a short, humorous laugh. "Like that'll do any good."

For the first time, the one in the tree noticed the dark gloves with the lighter, deep blue fingerstripes when the man leaned forward again to touch the grave marker.

"I wonder," he said, quietly. "If it would have made any difference if I could have been here. I—" he hesitated, then, and pulled away. "Probably not. You did—well—I thought you worked a little better with me. But that's just arrogance talking. I liked you. I liked having you as a brother. I guess I was just hoping maybe…maybe you liked having me as a brother, too."

The branches in the tree shook, this time not from the wind. A few leaves fell.

The man lowered his hood. He was young, with black hair and handsome features with a hint of the exotic. His eyes were hidden behind a mask. He blinked, and the lenses darkened slightly and then brightened again. His name was known the world over, but he lived mostly in the shadows and was not easily recognized. He was Gotham's child and Bludhaven's protector, the deadly vigilante known as Nightwing.

The one watching him realized that he either hadn't bothered to change after his mission before rushing over here, or had another mission, likely with the Dark Knight—he smiled bitterly at the thought—and had stopped beforehand to pay his respects.

Either way…it was a very definite display of…something. Rubbing absently at the bark, he decided he'd figure it out later. Whatever it was, though, it made him…kinda happy….

"I'm sorry I never got my chance to avenge you," Nightwing said, softly. His voice was steel and anger and hopelessness, all at once. "But…when he comes out…" he looked down, briefly, and took a breath. "When he gets out, like he…always does…"

If the sentence was finished, it was too low to be heard over the next burst of thunder.

The one in the tree growled, low and deep in his throat, displeased.

"I promise," Nightwing finished. Lightning flashed, as if to emphasize his words. He sighed.

On the other side of the graveyard, a tall maple caught fire and was promptly put out by the rain. Nightwing tilted his head back with an uncharacteristic listlessness, and watched until the blaze was completely extinguished.

"You were very brave, you know," he said, though he kept his head angled away as he said it, but remained staring at the maple instead. "I—I was hurt…when I first found out about you. And angry. But only at Bruce. Not at you. Never at you. You were amazing. I couldn't have found anyone better to take my place if I tried. And I want you to know—" he looked back at the gravestone.

And now the storm was directly overhead, and whatever was said could not be understood in the midst of the chaos. Even Nightwing could ignore it no longer. He chanced a quick look up at the sky, at the dark clouds gathered there, pressed his fingers to the cold stone once more, kissed it lightly, and stood.

It was impossible to hear much of anything, now, but the one in the tree saw Nightwing's lips move and thought he might have said, 'You'll always be my little brother." Then Nightwing ran past Jason's grave, under the oak, and then through rest of the trees, and down the hill and around to his motorcycle, stashed in between two bushes.

The storm raged on.

In the tree, Jason Todd was silent.

He hadn't truly expected anyone to come, but had been curious enough to hide and wait on the off chance someone would. Honestly, he was really waiting to see if Bruce would remember to visit. He definitely hadn't expected Nightwing.

They never did this sort of thing in costume. If it doesn't directly relate to the job, then take care of it as a civilian. No loose ends, nothing for anyone to come across and figure out. That was one of the most highly upheld rules of the Batfamily.

And Nightwing was such a good Bat. So blindly loyal.

But he came wearing his uniform.

Now that he thinks about it, it seems perfectly reasonable, logical even, that his brother might come to pay his last respects. Nightwing had always been fond of him. Jason had just never quite taken it seriously until now, because he would never have thought Batman's perfect little first son would break a rule—practically a law, in their family—for their (no longer) resident juvenile delinquent.

Jason sat still and absorbed this. He grinned, suddenly. There was a feeling, part elation, part unexpected triumph—_take that, Bruce!_—part expeditious agony. He acknowledged the aching pain inside his chest, but ignored it. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed.

The freezing rain slashed the ground. The wind moaned and rattled the leaves in the trees. In the sky, black clouds thundered.


End file.
